


The Body Remembers

by Jojo_Is_A_Hedgehog



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Childhood Bereavement, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Modern Era, parental loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:47:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28967820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jojo_Is_A_Hedgehog/pseuds/Jojo_Is_A_Hedgehog
Summary: Patsy doesn't deal well with anniversaries. Maybe it's time to change that.
Relationships: Delia Busby/Patsy Mount
Comments: 13
Kudos: 39





	The Body Remembers

**Author's Note:**

> Lightly inspired by ChipsintheChapel's fic, [Gravestone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28474503) Conversations

The cold water was soothing against the heated and swollen skin around her eyes. Taking a deep breath, Patsy dared to glance at herself in the mirror above the sink. She’d looked worse. Her face would settle down soon. She wasn’t so sure about her temper.

The door to the bathroom squeaked on it’s hinges. The sight of the woman she loved more than anyone on this planet should have made her happy, but instead it made her tense.

“Hey,” Delia greeted her quietly, reaching for Patsy’s shoulder. “You ok cariad?”

Patsy dodged the hand and turned to the paper towel dispenser, pulling off a couple of sheets and dabbing at her eyes. “I’m fine Deels.” She managed to prevent her voice creeping up into the high and falsely cheery register she would have used with anyone else. It had never fooled Delia anyway. Better to stay honest with her girlfriend, even if the words she spoke were a fib. “Let’s get back, looked like a long list this afternoon.” She offered Delia a small smile as she smoothed out non-existent wrinkles in her blue tunic. 

But rather than acquiesce, Delia stepped up to her, gently taking hold of Patsy’s elbows. The delicate facade of control the redhead was clinging to wobbled. Delia knew that affection made this all harder. Why was she doing this?

“Pats. You’ve been close to overwhelmed all day. Go home sweetheart, you won’t be letting anyone down.”

She swallowed hard. “Deels you know I can’t. It’s easier to work.”

“I know, but you’ve already snapped at a 3 year-old Pats. Clean the entire flat if it’ll help, you don’t need the stress of this place.”

The redhead sighed, a small voice in her head informing her that Delia was right, as she usually was, and she wasn’t happy about it. She was on edge, being curt with everyone, and though she was being absolutely diligent in her duties she knew she wasn’t doing her best work. But the thought of being alone in the flat all afternoon…

“I’ve already spoken to Phyllis, she understands—”

“What?!” Patsy exclaimed, flinching back as though burned.

Delia raised her hands defensively. “Calm down, I didn’t tell her everything—”

“You had no right to do that!” cried Patsy, pressure growing in her stomach, her skin feeling tight and itchy.

“Patsy—”

“No Delia! Just back the fuck off!” She shouldered past the brunette, throwing open the bathroom door and storming down the corridor. How could she do that?! She trusted Delia, how dare she go and tell their boss about her private dealings?!

“Nurse Mount!”

The stern voice from behind her halted Patsy in her tracks. She suddenly felt 12 years-old again, back at boarding school. Hesitantly, she turned to face her furious superior.

The look on Phyllis Crane’s face could make even a Tory politician quake. “I will not have language like that thrown at my staff thank you very much. Especially by one of their own colleagues, and certainly not by their partner.”

“Phyllis—”

“Unless you’re going to apologise to Nurse Busby you can keep whatever you’ve got to say behind your teeth kid,” the elder nurse barked. “Now get your things and go home. I suggest you take the bus, I don’t want you cycling in your state.”

Teeth clenched and nostrils flared, Patsy could only stand and stare at colleague for a moment, aghast at being reprimanded. Fine then. Clearly no-one wanted her around so what was the point in even trying to argue. Turning smartly on her heel she marched down the corridor to the locker room, slamming every possible door on her way out of the building.

————————

Patsy was sat in the empty bath tub in tatty jeans and a faded t-shirt, up to her elbows in bicarbonate of soda paste when she heard the front door open and close that evening. Bloody black mould. No matter how often she resealed and cleaned the edge of the bath and surrounding tiles it kept on coming back. Scrubbing away with an old tooth brush, she listened as Delia kicked off her shoes in the hallway and shuffled towards the bedroom. A distinctive crunchy squeak suggested Delia had probably collapsed onto their bed.

She wasn’t sure what to do. She wanted to go and apologise. She’d been a complete dick to her beloved at lunchtime, and she needed to make it right. But if Delia was still angry at her, as she had every right to be, she wasn’t sure she could take being chastised, or worse, cold-shouldered. However, if there was one thing she’d learnt in the two years, 4 months and 17 days she’d been with Delia, it was that things tended to be less stressful if she just got on with it instead of hiding.

So Patsy climbed out of the bath and rinsed her hands, slathering on the hand moisturiser Delia insisted on keeping next to every sink in the house because of how dry Patsy’s skin got, and shuffled out of the bathroom. 

Peering round the bedroom door, she found Delia sprawled on her back in the middle of the bed, feet dangling over the edge and one arm slung over her face. She looked exhausted. And all Patsy wanted was to cuddle up with her.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly as her throat tightened with tears.

“I know you are sweetheart,” Delia sighed, raising her arm towards Patsy. “Come here.”

Crawling onto the bed Patsy snuggled into the Welshwoman’s shoulder, relieved when the raised arm wrapped tight around her. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that,” she murmured against Delia’s throat. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Hmm,” Delia acknowledged, her fingers stroking over the redhead’s ribs. “We need to work on your temper cariad. It really stings when you do that, even if I do understand where it comes from.”

“I know I know.” Patsy wriggled closer as she littered tiny kisses across Delia’s jaw, trying to ignore the clenching in her chest, the weight in her stomach. “I just wish days like tomorrow didn’t have any significance. I don’t want to feel like this and I really don’t want to keep taking it out on you.”

“That’s the thing isn’t it. The body remembers, even if you don’t want to,” Delia said gently, turning to press her lips to Patsy’s forehead. She nuzzled into red hair, inhaling deeply. “You smell lemony fresh.”

Patsy chuckled. “You should smell the bin cupboard, I think I got carried away.” Her fingers toyed with the hem of Delia’s tunic. “Honestly Deels, I don’t know why you put up with me sometimes.”

“Because I can’t afford a cleaner,” Delia deadpanned, lifting her arm from her eyes a moment later to smirk at the unimpressed redhead. Rolling onto her side so they were face-to-face, Delia kissed Patsy’s nose. “I put up with you because I can’t imagine my life without you, you fool.”

Glancing away bashfully, Patsy felt the ache inside her ease, just a little. She truly didn’t deserve this woman. “How can I make it up to you?”

“By listening to what I’ve got to say without lashing out.” She locked eyes with Patsy, and it felt like she was peering into her soul. “Do you think you can do that?”

Patsy watched her warily, reluctant to make a promise she wasn’t sure she could keep, and if Delia was concerned she’d lash out this couldn’t be anything easy. “Depends what you’ve got to say.”

“Pats, please,” Delia sighed, giving her a little squeeze.

Groaning in protest, Patsy pressed her face into the duvet beneath her. She knew that ultimately whatever Delia wanted to broach would be carefully considered and most likely reasonable. But it was probably going to be something about how Patsy dealt with her emotions. And that always put her hackles up. “I’ll do my best,” she muttered, muffled by a face-full of fabric.

“Thank you cariad,” whispered the brunette, leaning in to press a kiss to Patsy’s temple. “I’ve been reading up on grief, and coping methods.”

Oh wonderful, thought Patsy, her back and shoulders starting to tense already. Taking a deep breath she forced herself to keep listening.

“And I wonder if things like anniversaries hit you so hard because you fight your grief so hard.”

Patsy moved only far enough that she could open one eye, watching Delia sceptically. “I know I’m going to regret asking this, but can you elaborate?”

“I mean, like almost every time you see or hear or smell or taste something that reminds you of Grace or your mum, the moment you realise it’s connected to them it’s like the grief surges in and like that,” Delia snapped her fingers, “you shut down. It’s very disconcerting to witness, especially because there’s usually just a split second of joy there at the beginning. It makes me very sad to think that you’re missing out on moments and experiences that could give you happiness.”

Something was clawing it’s way up Patsy’s throat, she could feel it rising, scratching as she took shallow breaths, her eyes locked onto the pattern of the duvet cover, unblinking. “I have to shut down,” she managed to croak. “It hurts.”

“Of course it does sweetheart,” Delia whispered, pulling Patsy in close, the redhead burrowing into her chest as she dragged in a full breath. “It’s only natural that you’d want to shield yourself from that, I can barely imagine how painful it must be for you.”

Patsy wrapped her arms tightly around Delia’s waist, perhaps too tightly, but she needed the Welshwoman’s warmth, her presence. Sometimes it felt like Delia’s love was the only thing that stopped her falling apart.

“But maybe if you tried actively acknowledging them, it might help to lance the blister a little, if you’ll excuse the metaphor. Just take a moment to say ‘Hello Mum’ or ‘Hi Grace’, it could make things easier in time.”

Fighting back a scoff, Patsy settled for murmuring darkly, “If you’re suggesting that’s them letting me know they’re still with me you can get in the bin.”

Delia chuckled, rubbing her cheek against Patsy’s head. “I wouldn’t dare, I’m well aware you think the afterlife and similar concepts are complete bollocks.”

Patsy settled for a muted harrumph. She was starting to feel a little drowsy honestly, it had been a shitty day, and lying here like this with Delia tended to make her sleepy anyway, but her mind was whirring away on something, she just had no idea what.

“I was speaking to Julienne a few weeks ago,” Delia continued cautiously. “Didn’t mention your name I hasten to add—”

“She’d hardly need to use her PhD to know it was about me.”

“Probably not. But she does have a lot of experience in this field. She mentioned that a lot of the people she’s worked with have found that ritualising their grief helps. Especially with regards to anniversaries. So…” Patsy felt Delia tense slightly while delicate fingers drew mindless patterns on her back. “I swapped my day off with Trixie. I thought that, tomorrow, if you were up for it, we could do something to commemorate your mum and Grace.”

Patsy frowned against Delia’s chest. Her mind felt like it was made of treacle. She knew what Delia was saying made sense, yet her brain couldn’t quite make sense of it. Like she was speaking a language she was only vaguely familiar with. “Like what?”

“That’s up to you cariad. Doesn’t have to be anything grandiose, I know huge displays of sentiment aren’t your cup of tea.” 

Delia kissed along Patsy’s hairline as the quiet enveloped the pair of them. Only Patsy’s brain wasn’t quiet. It was chatty, but not the sort of chatty you could find anything meaningful in. At least not right away. So she ignored it, focused instead on the sensation of holding and being held by Delia, of being safe in this little home they’d made together. Delia didn’t press for anything. She seemed just as content to let the moment be.

“Deels?” Patsy murmured a little while later.

“Yes sweetheart?”

“There is something I’ve been…maybe considering thinking about perhaps doing…”

“Oh?”

———————

The next morning they caught a train out of London, followed by a taxi out to where Patsy had spent the last two years of what she deemed to be her childhood.

Squinting against the cool, bright sunlight she was both surprised and not by how little she recognised. It was inevitable that the place would change in the space of nearly 17 years, especially when she hadn’t been back to witness it happening gradually. Didn’t stop it being a shock though.

Every step she took along the pavement sent of a waft of peony and freesia up Patsy’s nose. They’d been her mum’s favourites. She hated the smell. Probably because they were her mum’s favourites. Delia might have had a point there. It wasn’t helping with the rolling in her stomach though. And a headache was starting at the base of her skull. Tension probably. She was bundled up but she was cold, yet she could feel sweat prickling on her back. This was a bad idea. This was the worst idea. She genuinely thought she might be sick.

And then they reached the gates.

“Deels wait,” she snapped, clutching the two bouquets tightly, a larger elaborate one for her mum, a dozen fragrant yellow roses for Grace, as her eyes fixed on the plaque bolted to the wall.

Park Lane Cemetery

A hand rubbed soothingly between her shoulder blades. “It’s all right cariad.”

Patsy’s throat suddenly felt unbearably tight, or maybe like something was stuck in it. She swallowed hard. “I don’t think I can do this,” she managed to eek out, her breaths quick and shallow.

And then she was being turned away from the gates, and all she could see was her beautiful girlfriend, and the traffic on the busy road behind her.

“If you don’t want to go in sweetheart, you don’t have to,” Delia pointed out calmly, prising one of Patsy’s hand out of the stranglehold she had on the flower stems, squeezing it gently instead, her thumb gliding over Patsy’s knuckles. “You’re in control Pats, so take a couple of deep breaths. There’s no rush.”

The first breath Patsy dragged in only seemed to make things worse, her chest quaking and her eyes stinging as too many emotions battled within her. She watched Delia take the flowers off her and place them on the ground by the wall. She returned quickly, pulling Patsy into her arms. The press of the smaller body against her front, the smell of Delia’s shampoo, just about discernible from under her thick wooly hat, helped to ground her.

It took a few more attempts but eventually she was able to breathe evenly, the headache and nausea easing a little. “I haven’t been here since the blessing of their headstone,” she admitted, guilt flooding through her. She’d neglected them for so long.

“It’s all right Pats, no-one is obligated to visit someone’s grave.” Delia pulled away just far enough to look Patsy in the eye. “I’ll wager your father hasn’t been since then either. If you want to head home now, just say the word.”

Aware that she was shaking, Patsy risked a glance back over her shoulder, at the bouquets on the ground beneath the plaque. She had a reason for being here. She had to see it through. “Would be a shame to waste the flowers.”

With Delia’s hand held tightly in hers, she slowly made her way down the path. The cemetery had been expanded. Beyond the little car park just past her mother and Grace’s grave there had once been a meadow. Now she could see it was almost full of headstones. A quick glance around at the nibbled plants on various plots they passed suggested there was still an active rabbit population. As they walked the monuments got shinier, most of the plots tidier, relatives still living to tend them. There were a few sad looking wooden crosses here and there, where a headstone had been too big an expense, or there was no-one left to buy one.

The ostentatious black monstrosity that was her destination loomed large in Patsy’s peripheral vision. It was impossible to miss even though she wasn’t ready to look at it. Would it be tidy? Would it look like someone still cared that this was where they lay?

Reaching the patch of tarmac that claimed to be a car park, Patsy continued to stall. She felt so heavy. Itchy all over. Her shoulders were so tight they weren’t just shivering they were vibrating. Slowly, she turned to face the row upon row of graves, letting her eyes skim the stones behind her family’s. She was surprised to spot a familiar face amongst them. Or rather a photo of a familiar face, mounted on grey granite, an engraving of the Virgin Mary gazing down on it.

Caroline. She’d had two girls about the same age as Patsy and Grace. Patsy and Kerry, the eldest, had muddled through their first holy communion together. And they’d helped their mothers to clean the church once a month. She remembered racing Kerry, Grace, and Fran, Kerry’s sister, along the pews, polish laden cloths skimming across the wooden surfaces while Patsy’s mum and Caroline diligently hoovered. Neither family had been especially devout, simply attending most Sundays, but they’d been part of a community.

Caroline had died of cancer when Patsy and Kerry were eleven. The church had been full for her funeral. Standing room only. Patsy had sat with her mum and Grace at the back of the church with the rest of the regular congregation, transfixed by the coffin at the altar, not quite able to get her head around the idea that the smiling woman with the musical laugh who made sure she got a biscuit and a cup of orange squash after Sunday school was lying in there. After Father Eamon had said his final blessings at the graveside the crowd had slowly dispersed. Patsy remembered watching Kerry, standing alone as family members greeted and consoled each other around her. Eventually the little girl had turned around, looking lost and bereft. Mum had stepped forward, intent on comforting her as she finally gave in to her tears. She’d been so stoic throughout the funeral. But someone had swept in at the last moment, presumably a relative, holding her until Kerry’s dad appeared to take charge of her. The atmosphere in the parish hall had been strange. Patsy had only been in there for parties before, but despite the number of people in the hall it had been unnervingly quiet. She’d found Kerry by the buffet, and between them they’d made off with half a plate of Mrs Brown’s custard biscuits, giggling in a corner for a short while, talking about silly things before the girl suddenly disintegrated into tears in front of her, the weight of her grief too much to bear. It was incomprehensible to Patsy.

She’d come to understand all too well just 14 weeks later. Mum and Grace’s funeral had been starkly different to Caroline’s. Father hadn’t invited the church’s congregation, though Patsy had noticed a handful of the old Italian ladies who also cleaned the church sitting at the back. She knew almost no-one else who attended, they were just black-clad, stone-faced bodies. No-one who would hold her if the weight of her grief consumed her as it had Kerry. Father Eamon had hugged her briefly once her mum and Grace had been laid to rest but her father had hurried her away. There had been no wake.

Patsy’s eyes finally drifted to the dark hulk of stone that marked her family’s resting place. Her mum had never been interested in being buried in the Mount family plot in Bristol, so instead her father had bought a black granite headstone and kerb set for them, with gilded lettering and white quartz chips laid over it. Her mum would not have been impressed.

Her feet developed a mind of their own, slow steps towards the monument. She was vaguely aware of Delia’s hand slipping from hers. As she got closer, moving between other stones, the gold letters came into focus.

 _Susanne Clare Mount_  
_Grace Lavinia Mount_

They didn’t stay in focus for long, the names turning blurry as tears clung to Patsy’s eyelashes. She wasn’t sure if she knelt willingly beside the grave or if her knees simply gave way as an unbearable ache swept through her. Her body curled in on itself, a high keening cry escaping her throat. Leaning heavily on the kerb set her fingers scraped through the quartz, clutching at the chips, sharp edges digging into her palms.

Delia had been right. The body did remember. She felt 11 years-old again, slowly realising that her mum would never hold her again, that Grace couldn’t steal her teddies anymore, that she wouldn’t hear them laugh. She felt the loneliness that had overwhelmed that little girl when her father refused to comfort her, too consumed by his own grief. 

But she wasn’t alone now.

Fighting to draw breath, Patsy tried to turn her body towards the car park. “Deels?” she whimpered, the sound tiny and pathetic.

Instantly, Delia was at her side, kneeling beside her, holding her close as the pain crashed through her. “I’m here cariad. I’m here, you’re safe.” Gently, the brunette began to rock her. “Cry as much as you need to sweetheart.”

She pressed her face to Delia’s neck as she sobbed, images and moments flashing behind her eyelids. She remembered coming home from school and being sat down in the sitting room, her father’s voice strained as he told her about the crash. She remembered the numbness that had settled over her at his words. It had stayed with her for nearly an hour until she was alone in her room, gradually fading until all she knew was anguish. She saw the open coffins in the chapel of rest, her father’s hand tight on her shoulder. How mum and Grace hadn’t looked right. They didn’t smell right. She remembered how chilled the church was the night before the funeral, when the pallbearers set the coffins on the trestle legs. She hadn’t wanted to leave them alone all night in the cold. She could still hear the clunk of Grace’s coffin as it was lowered onto her mum’s, the clattering of the handful of soil father cast onto the lid, obscuring the brass plaque with her name on it. It had looked so small…

A crunching noise caught Patsy’s attention. Her face was sore, but she wasn’t crying anymore. She allowed herself a moment to come back to the present, grateful for Delia’s solid presence. It still hurt, but not overwhelmingly so. Taking a deep breath she sat up, her back aching, protesting the change of position. Her knees were cold and damp, and her head felt like it was stuffed with cotton wool. She heard the crunching noise again. Looking down she realised the flowers had been crushed against her body. She hoped she hadn’t ruined them.

“All right there cariad?” Delia asked quietly, gentle fingers sweeping red hair behind Patsy’s ears.

Patsy simply nodded, not quite ready to meet her girlfriend’s eye. “Thank you,” she croaked, reaching for Delia’s hand.

“Anytime Pats,” Delia smiled, leaning in to place a kiss on Patsy’s temple. “Do you want to get going?”

“Not yet,” Patsy sighed, shaking her head. She took a moment to look at the monument. Properly look at it. There was very little dust or dirt on it. The quartz chips were clean, no moss growing amongst them. And no weeds growing around the kerb set either. Someone must have been tending the plot. She needed to find out who and thank them. Carefully, she placed the flowers on top of the quartz and leaned forward to rub her thumb over the names engraved in the granite. It was so strange to think this was one of the very few physical things she had left to remember them by. The stone was so cold against her skin. She didn’t like to think of them being cold.

Forcing her thoughts away from such things, Patsy sat back on her heels. “Mum, Grace,” she addressed the headstone. She reached again for Delia’s hand, interlacing their fingers. “This is Delia.” She could see the small smile on Delia’s face out of the corner of her eye but knew if she looked at her fully she wouldn’t be able to finish what she wanted to say. So she pushed on. “I’m going to marry her someday, if she’ll let me…but I wanted you both to meet her first. I hope that’s ok…” Patsy’s breath caught and her heart clenched as she was besieged by an image of her mum and Grace helping her to get ready on her future wedding day. God she wanted that so much. It wasn’t fair.

Delia’s hand was on her back, rubbing in soothing circles. “Deep breaths Pats, you’re ok.”

“Urghh Christ!” Patsy groaned, sitting back and glaring at the sky. “Why does this all have to be so hard?!”

“It’s all a process sweetheart. Baby steps, and in time it’ll get easier.”

Patsy huffed to herself, playing with Delia’s fingers. “I wish you could have met them. Mum would’ve loved you.”

“So do I love.” Delia smiled at her, and Patsy felt some of her frustration lift. “You know Grace and I would’ve ganged up on you relentlessly though, right?”

Something resembling a giggle escaped Patsy’s throat, catching her by surprise. “That’s the way it should be.” Hesitantly she leaned forward, her fingers skimming over the quartz. She selected one of the bigger pieces, turning it over and over, watching it sparkle in the sunlight.

“Do you feel like you’ve done what you needed to do?”

Patsy took a deep breath, and nodded, tucking the quartz into the pocket of her coat. She crawled to the headstone, and pressed a kiss to the gold lettering of their names. “I miss you,” she whispered, tears welling in her eyes.

She cleared her throat as she stood, leaning into Delia when the brunette wrapped her arm around her waist.

When they reached the path, Delia gave her a gentle squeeze. “I’m proud of you Patsy. And I know they are too.”

Patsy cringed a little, never comfortable with the sentiment even when professed by the person she loved most in the whole world. But she could admit that she was glad that she’d taken this step.


End file.
